


On the third day

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 7x10 AU coda. Castiel comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the third day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chosenfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chosenfire/gifts).



> For chosenfire28 who asked for Castiel to come back.

Dean’s been sitting by Bobby’s hospital bedside for three days.

Every time Sam’s looked at him with that broken hope, Dean felt his own grow bleaker. He doesn’t have the stomach to see his brother’s watery smile, instead glowering from Bobby’s unmoving hands and the damned peaceful expression in his coma like he was _ready_ , to the monitor beeping on the wall.

It’s an offensively sunny afternoon. The breeze is sharp enough to make him tuck his jacket closer around his shoulders, but, from his lean against the window frame, Dean thinks Bobby would appreciate the fresh air.

“Third day running and all reports are negative for recon on Doctor Sexy.”

Dean watches a gaggle of nurses wander through the courtyard below, laughing, with their lunches in hand. He’s amused at the idea that this was the only way he’d ever get Bobby to sit through such a commentary. He likes to think Bobby could secretly enjoy it. He’d give the old man that simple joy.

“It’s all sneakers, tennis shoes, close shaves and ponytails.” Dean makes a face at the unkempt intern number four that dashes through the courtyard next, glancing at his pager. “Don’t they know they’ve got an audience to entertain?”

He glances back at Bobby, at the bandages tightly wrapped around his head.

It still makes his stomach flip.

Dean checks his phone, but there are no new messages, no missed calls. He sighs and turns back to that window. At least Sam didn’t seem to need his help choosing the right pie on his grocery run.

“You gotta snap out of it, Bobby. Please. The sooner the better; if I have to smoke one of the nurses because they got taken over, it’ll break my heart if it’s the hot one.”

“Dean.”

Dean stops, light and sound in the room draining away, his entire awareness narrows in the space of the sudden clench of his heart, as though squeezed within a cold, iron fist. The hot sting behind his eyes blurs the courtyard below and the metal window frame digs in under his grip.

He hadn’t expected any response, and that voice… it was the last he’d expected. He shuts his eyes, steeling himself against the ache knotting tight between his lungs, because he won’t be bowed by the sadism of his own imagination playing that voice that he _knew_ he’d never hear again –

“Dean.” The voice sighs this time, rough and weary, and the guilt it churns in Dean’s stomach is too powerful to resist.

He doesn’t expect to see anything when he turns, but the hope (the _longing_ ) against every rational fibre is enough to close his throat; they’ve had so many chances and wasted every one. The universe has proven it’s patient, but not forgiving of them.

When he turns and sees Castiel at Bobby’s bedside, the relief is almost strong enough to crumble him. A single glance and another blow of guilt takes the wind from him, understanding the Leviathans had him all this time. They had him and Cas fought his way back to his friends, one more time, evidenced by the ugly, black stain down that borrowed suit, and he sways with the effort of standing by the bed.

“Cas?” Dean finally croaks, barely finding the air.

Castiel looks up from Bobby’s sleeping face, a palm laid over the bandages over his forehead like a blessing. Sweat beads down his temples. Dean doesn’t think his eyes have ever looked so blue.

But then those eyes close, Castiel rocks on his feet, and Dean curses, leaping around the bed just in time to catch him as he knees give out. A long breath leaves Castiel’s dry lips as Dean sinks to the ground with his arms locked tightly around the angel.

 _“Cas?”_ Dean begs, squeezing the angel’s shoulder. He pushes the matted hair from his face, God, his skin was so clammy, and he tries not to think about how pale Castiel is because he had _finally_ come back to them. “Talk to me, man. Cas, _talk to me.”_

Castiel opens his eyes and it breaks Dean’s heart when he looks instead at the overhead fluorescent lights, blinking and unfocused.

“He’ll be fine now. He’ll be fine,” Castiel murmurs, head lolling against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s blood runs cold and he looks up to Bobby’s bed.

“What did you do? Cas, what did you do?” He waits all of a beat for a response that doesn’t come and shakes the angel gently. Castiel is as prone as a doll in his arms. God, no. No, no, nononono -- “Stay with me. Cas? Cas, please, stay with me, stay with me….”

His heart thunders in his chest like a fist driving through fresh scar tissue, and this wound is still too raw, he’s lost so many of them, but he couldn’t lose Cas _again_. Not again and not like this.

Castiel’s forehead is flush with sweat against Dean’s cheek and his hair feels moist when Dean sinks his fingers in. His eyes burn with the force of the sob he can’t swallow, clutching the angel’s prone form closer.

Above them, Bobby’s heart monitor beeps on, steady and calm.

A twitch shivers through Castiel’s shoulders. Dean feels the grunt of irritation puff against his neck.

“Stop… shaking me… or I’ll ask Hell for a refund.”

Dean stiffens. He pulls back to look into the angel’s face and, though Castiel’s eyes are still closed, Dean sees his throat work to swallow. Dean looks about wildly, finally straining to Bobby’s side tray, and Castiel’s breath hitches when Dean tips his head up to drink the water from the plastic cup, just a few sips, before his lips release the rim, panting, and Dean sets the cup aside. He strokes Castiel’s arm, soaking in the relief of his soft, ragged breaths.

“You stupid son of a bitch.” Dean’s mouth twitches in a smile.

“Dick.” Castiel’s voice cracks and Dean feels like his heart will burst when those blue eyes finally open again and Castiel looks into his face with a weak, amused smile.

Dean laughs, cheeks hurting with the force of his grin, and he kisses that beautiful smile before he can stop himself.

“I got you. Don’t die on me,” Dean whispers, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s and listens to the angel’s laboured breaths.

Tangled on the floor of Bobby’s hospital room, he squeezes his angel one more time – _please,_ he thinks, finally, _just keep breathing and I’ll never make you stand alone again_ – and Castiel swallows; Dean hears the effort it takes.

“Okay,” Castiel says. “Okay.”


End file.
